We got R. an Easter sewing set with twenty-odd colored spools and at dusk she portioned them out for me: “This [dark gray] is darkness—that’s a challenge for you—this [light gray] is dimness—you will have to go through dimness—this [light green] is the leaves of the tree and this [dark green] is the trunk...” Then I followed her through color-coded quests in the yard, clutching one spool at a time. “How old are you? Thirty-eight... you have to go around these bricks thirty times, or eight times.” She pulled herself up to the fence in her nightgown, left wrist still in a cast, and spied on the neighbors’ flowers. “The flower of love... no, the flower of the truth.”

I’ve been trying to nail down words for a few songs and came across Nadezhda Mandelstam’s extraordinary account of the process (in Hope Against Hope):

A poem begins with a musical phrase ringing insistently in the ears; at first inchoate, it later takes on a precise form, though still without words. I sometimes saw M. trying to get rid of this kind of “hum,” to brush off and escape from it. He would toss his head as though it could be shaken out like a drop of water that gets into your ear while bathing. But it was always louder than any noise, radio or conversation in the same room.

Akhmatova told me that when “Poem Without a Hero” came to her, she was ready to try anything just to get rid of it, even rushing to do her washing. But nothing helped. At some point words formed behind the musical phrase and then the lips began to move. The work of a poet has probably something in common with that of a composer, and the appearance of words is the crucial factor that distinguishes it from musical composition. The “hum” sometimes came to M. in his sleep, but he could never remember it on waking. I have a feeling that verse exists before it is composed (M. never talked of “writing” verse, only of “composing” it and then copying it out). The whole process of composition is one of straining to catch and record something compounded of harmony and sense as it is relayed from an unknown source and gradually forms itself into words. The last stage of the work consists in ridding the poem of all the words foreign to the harmonious whole which existed before the poem arose. Such words slip in by chance, being used to fill gaps during the emergence of the whole. They become lodged in the body of the poem, and removing them is hard work. This final stage is a painful process of listening in to oneself in a search for the objective and absolutely precise unity called a “poem.” In his poem “Save My Speech,” the last adjective to come was “painstaking” (in “the painstaking tar of hard work”). M. complained that he needed something more precise and spare here, in the manner of Akhmatova: “She knows how to do it.” He seemed to be waiting for her help.

I noticed that in his work on a poem there were two points at which he would sigh with relief—when the first words in a line or stanza came to him, and when the last of the foreign bodies was driven out by the right word. Only then is there an end to the process of listening in on oneself—the same process that can prepare the way for a disturbance of the inner hearing and loss of sanity. The poem now seems to fall away from the author and no longer torments him with its resonance. He is released from the thing that obsesses him. Io, the poor cow, escapes from the gadfly.

If the poem won’t “go away,” M. said, it means that there is something wrong with it, or something “still hidden in it”—a last fruitful bud from which a new shoot might sprout.

There is nothing to report on the theatre. Fiaminna, which everyone is talking about, is rubbish. Question d’argent is a piece of witty chat, but tedious. The French have lost all capacity for truth in art, and art itself is dying out here. With which, addio.

—Turgenev to P.V. Annenkov, 15 April 1857

Just imagine what it is like to have left an area where cholera is raging: I am eating radishes! lettuce!! cucumber!!! and drinking cream!!!! and all in huge quantities, and I’ve given up mint!!!!! I am definitely beginning to feel the presence within me of some heroic spirit.

In the evening I went to see a ballet, The Five Senses. It was unspeakably absurd. Among other things it had a scene of magnetism (Grisi magnetises M. Petitpa to awaken in him the sense of taste) utterly colossal in its stupidity. In fact Grisi danced very well, but a ballet is a tedious thing—legs, legs and more legs: monotonous.

...entirely preoccupied by the appearance of a large and colorful woodpecker which busily climbed up the slender trunk of a birch tree and looked anxiously from behind it to right and left like a musician looking out from behind the neck of his double-bass.

Alex Danchev. Cezanne: A Life. Pantheon, 2012.
It's often loose and can feel like a collection of anecdotes, but then there's something appropriate about letting incidents hang free as disconnected brushstrokes rather than plaster it all with narrative contour.

Texts and images copyright (C) 2013 Paul Kerschen. Layout adapted from the Single A Tumblr theme by businessbullpen. The Greater Roadrunner (Geococcyx californianus) has zygodactylic feet, leaving X-shaped tracks with ambiguous direction. The Pueblo and Hopi used the X symbol to mislead evil spirits. Border folklore in the early twentieth century held that a roadrunner would lead a lost traveler back to his path. In Mexico the roadrunner is known as paisano, countryman.